Never Done: Photographed a fish on a mirror
Of all the Jewish food we couldn't get in the little Massachusetts apple town where I grew up, the only thing I really loved was whitefish chubs. I didn't like herring, I hated tongue, I thought kasha varnishkes were dry, and knishes too heavy. I thought whitefish salad was too mushy and lox was too slimy. When my grandfather would come to visit from Quincy, a city on the south shore of Boston Harbor, he would bring all of this, and I didn't care. I was just interested in the whitefish chubs.
I liked the way he pulled out the backbone, and folded the fish open on a plate. I liked the red wine vinegar he sprinkled on top. I liked the fish alone, and I liked it on a bagel and cream cheese. Whitefish chubs let me feel like part of the family.
Now, all these years later, my taste hasn't changed much; I've discovered that I like nova lox -- that it is not as slimy as the rest, but I will still pass on all the rest. (Except Dana's cousin Eric's grilled knishes, which are definitely the best knishes I've had.) But most of all, I still love whitefish chubs.
And they've gotten harder and harder to find. Over the summer, Josh and I wanted to bring some to Pamela and David, who live just down the road from where I grew up. We drove all over Brooklyn, including to the Brooklyn Terminal Market, where I had never before been. (When we got there, we discovered that the man who ran the fish market had recently passed away, and his space was being taken over by his good friend, the florist who owned the space next door.) We didn't find any chubs that day, and ended up just bringing bagels.
When we had the idea to make our eighth night menoyre out of a whitefish chub, we figured it would be easy enough to find one in Manhattan -- at Russ and Daughters or at any old deli. But that didn't prove to be the case, so Josh set about calling all the places he could think of, and was told that chubs are unavailable because the weather has been too warm around Lake Michigan, and so they can't get any from their suppliers. This turns out to be a near truth, the real truth being that whitefish chubs populations have been reduced because of invasive zebra mussels. (But why have zebra mussels invaded? Is it because of climate change?)
Anyhow, we ended up buying a huge, gorgeous whitefish, which made for a glorious spectacle, a resplendent golden candelabra, but ... let's just say it, it's no chub. It was also way too big to fit on any plate or platter we could find, so we went into the basement of the house we live in (at midnight) to see if there was anything there we could use. We weren't seeing anything, until suddenly, inspired, Josh suggested we put it on a mirror. (I think the point of this story has something to do with perseverance and adapting to new situations creatively as they arise.) So we carried a mirror up to our apartment, and we cleaned it with Windex, and I'm sure for the first time in my life, and potentially for the last, we placed the giant fish on the mirror. And you know that moment? That moment when you know you've done something terribly, terribly right? If you do, then you know what I am talking about. If you don't, then I don't think words can explain. And that is why I took a photograph.
Never Done: Celiac Center
Never Done: Knit on the subway
Never Done: S'menore
There are 13 mides (middot) but not one for what I need most right now: Balance.
Humility: seek wisdom from everybody
Patience: Do not aggravate a situation with wasted grief
Equanimity: Rise above events that are inconsequential
Truth: Say nothing unless you are 100% sure it is true
Decisiveness: When you have made a decision, act without hesitation
Cleanliness: Let no stain or ugliness on our self/space
Order: All actions and possessions should have a set place and time
Righteousness: What is hateful to you do not do to others
Frugality: Be careful with your money
Diligence: Always find something to do
Silence: Reflect before speaking
Calmness: Words of the wise are stated gently
Separation: Respect in sexual and intimate relationships
For the past month, I've been trying to squeeze balance into Patience, Equanimity, Truth, and Decisiveness, but really -- I need to meditate on a mide that would be something like: Balance: Do not let your board responsibilities screw your work life.
It feels vulnerable to write about this, but I think I should write about challenges that I am not overcoming easily with the use of Mussar, as well as the ones I am. As I've mentioned before, I am working on JFREJ's annual Marshall T. Meyer Risk Taker Awards, which are scheduled for tonight (and if you are in or near New York, you should come!) We hired Nikki to be our event coordinator, and she is doing a phenomenally wonderful job -- she is organized, effective, frugal, calm ... wait a second -- she pretty much embodies all the elements of the Mussar mides above! We also have a JFREJ staff administrator, Sarah, who has also been wonderful -- both in an ongoing way, and for the Meyer Awards. And we have a small, strong committee made up of member and board volunteers who have put in tons of effective, productive time -- to produce this event.
I'm not sure how everyone else who has been working so hard on the Meyer Awards feels, or how well they have been able to keep a balance of their commitments, but I've been wobbling for weeks, and I finally toppled over yesterday: I had a big grant deadline, and I did not make it because I gave too much of my time to JFREJ and not enough to my job.
People who know me know that this is not the first time I have had this kind of balance problem. It has gotten better, and then it sometimes gets worse. This time, I (along with the others) tried to address it from the start, by assessing capacity and planning the event to be manageable given our capacity. But somehow it grew, or we shrank. I can only speak for myself, but I ended up putting 20-30 hours a week into this event for the past weeks. This meant I stayed up way too late trying to squeeze everything in, an it also meant, eventually, that I just didn't get my own work done. I tried to be patient about it, and I tried to figure out what was consequential and not, and I tried to act decisively, and I looked ahead into the upcoming week's mides, and especially pulled on Order: all actions should have a set place and time. And still, I toppled.
So, there I was yesterday, at the moment when I realized it was no longer possible to complete the grant by deadline, and I felt shitty. I thought about going to the gym, which I hadn't done in 2 days, and I thought about sneaking around the corner to see the Harry Potter movie, which I haven't had time to do yet, and I thought about writing the essay part of my adoption application, which I need to do, and just then, my friend Michele sent me an email telling me about a roundtable discussion with the Director of the Celiac Center, way up on 168th Street at Columbia University Medical Center. I have been on the waiting list to see a doctor there since September, and my appointment is not until late January. In the meantime, I have been trying to figure out what I should be doing to get an accurate diagnosis. My doctor did genetic testing, and I did come up with one of two genes for celiac. That just means I'm pre-disposed; it doesn't mean I have it. She then asked me to go on a gluten-rich diet, and wanted to test my blood for antibodies to gluten after 4-6 weeks. All the reading I've done has shown me that the best diagnosis comes from 3 months on a gluten-rich diet, and an endoscopy. I've been calling the Celiac Center every week to see if they had any cancellations, and I've asked if someone could consult with me about this preparation for diagnosis process, but they have told me I had to wait til I see someone. Meanwhile, it is physically uncomfortably in a number of ways to be eating so much wheat, so I don't want to be doing this wrong.
So when I got the invitation to meet the director of the Celiac Center (and as it turned out, the geneticist and the nutritionist) and ask questions in an informal setting, I decided to ride an hour north. And it was completely worth it. There were about 10 people there, and we all got to ask the questions we needed to, and we all got the answers we wanted. (Except maybe the woman who was obsessing over whether wine has gluten in it, and after all three professionals told her no, she kept talking about the flour paste vintners wash the wooden barrels with, and the gluten fillers American winemakers put into wine...) I found out that I am not eating enough gluten to prepare for testing, that I do need to do it for 3 months, and that while a blood test can be interesting, it is completely inconclusive -- especially at the lab my doctor uses, which doesn't run a full antibody panel. I found out that I can put gluten powder in a smoothie (and that gluten powder even exists.) I found out that the gene I have is the more common of the two to have. And I found out that I am probably not going to get an appointment before my scheduled appointment, but now that I know how to be prepping, that seems OK with me. It turned out to be an excellent use of my time.
And to make it even more fruitful, I took the knitting project I pulled out during Crafternoon -- the long lacy scarf I found in my mom's knitting box -- and I started it on the subway. I have knit in a lot of places before -- classrooms, living rooms, planes. But I haven't knit since moving to NYC, so I have never knit on a subway. It turns out it's like an amulet. People leave the seat next to you free (so your arms can move freely?) and they smile at you. I am never riding the subway without my knitting again.
One more thing. Seventh night s'menore:
Never Done: Story, Song, and Shimmy
I took Tabitha to the YMCA, where we took my first ever Baby and Me kind of class, Story, Song, and Shimmy, with a tumult of toddlers. Whenever I spend a couple hours with her, I remember that life for a little one is just so ... ongoing! She doesn't chill for an hour with the New York Times, and she doesn't fix her own lunch yet (although she can totally reach into her bag now and find the food she wants and make me understand that she wants it.) Usually when we hang out together, I'm the one coming up with ideas of things to engage her and help her develop language and fine motor skills. We only spend a couple hours together a week, so it's not like it's hard to think up fun things to do -- but I know that it's way more non-stop for her parents.
I took her to the class because I thought it would be fun for both of us, and educational for her, but what I didn't count on was that I would learn as much as she would. It seems so simple and potentially obvious, but the class is geared as much toward breaking the isolation of parenting (or nannying) solo as it is toward entertaining and engaging the children. You could see it happen: the adults in the room start to look out for children who aren't theirs, the kids start to tentatively interact with each other, and teacher keeps a steady stream of activities going that the kids can engage with at the same time, but at their own level.
Tabitha was on the younger end of the age spectrum, so she stuck pretty close to me the whole time. We sang I know a boy who had a dog and Bingo is his name-o and Itsy Bitsy Spider and Old McDonald and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (the American children's song canon hasn't changed much since I was Tabitha's age) -- all with hand movements to accompany the lyrics. She was totally into the songs -- not that she could do the hand movements without me moving her hands with her -- just transfixed. But when Chrissy the teacher pulled out the picture books and read them, Tabitha turned her interest to her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
And then the parachute came out. I think the experience of being under the multi-colored parachute while it billowed up and down must have been a lot like riding the roller coaster is for older kids: a whirlwind of terror and delight. She clung to me, and she smiled. She clung to me, and she gazed with wonder. She clung to me, and she laughed. All the other kids were under the parachute alone, but Tabitha was like a little marsupial, cleaved to safety, eyes wide open. I later found out that it was her first time playing under a parachute. I fully expect her to be skydiving by the time she is 16.
None of this seems terribly connected to my mide this week: decisiveness, although I have found it incredibly helpful to embrace the direction that once I make a decision, act without hesitation. It has kept me at the computer for marathon stretches, and has helped me take breaks. It's helped me set limits, ask for help, get exercise, make tough phone calls, and even, just now, before I wrote this paragraph, take a nap instead of drink caffeine (which I stopped drinking a year ago because of ways it badly affects my body) even though I am slammed with work.
It's also helped me write this blog every day. Most days I have way more to do than I can accomplish, and yet I think it is a combination of decisiveness and public accountability that has kept me here every day. Same with making a new menore every night. Speaking of which, here's another whirlwind of terror and delight:
Never Done: Crafternoon
Inspired by the Brooklyn Soup Swap, Esther organized a craft-in. The first one was held at my apartment. It went through some conceptual changes on its way to reality. It was first going to be a t-shirt up-sourcing workshop -- Tine was going to teach us how to make a corsetted t-shirt from the Alabama Stitch Book. But at the last minute she couldn't come, so Esther considered who else could lead a craft, and ended up deciding to have a gather-in where we all worked on our own projects. Abigail brought a pair of mittens she's knitting with a flap that can be opened to expose the fingers. Esther brought a hat she is knitting. Emily came without a project, but looked through lots of my vintage knitting books for inspiration for new projects. And Dakota came ready to help me make a duct tape pants suit to wear to the upcoming Prince concert, but my duct tape hadn't arrived. Nonetheless, Dakota and I looked at online resources for making duct tape garments, and came up with a plan -- not for a pants suit, but for a wrap-around v-neck dress or potentially smoking jacket.
I spent the rest of the crafternoon going through a big box of my mother's knitting, embroidery, and sewing stuff. It was full of discoveries and memories. Large pieces of fabric she got in Sweden, along with the Folkwear patterns she used to sew in the 1970s. (I remember she made the French Cheesemaker's smock.) Embroidery designs she sold, and one that she apparently didn't sell -- a placement with a meta-design of a place setting on it, in a return envelope from Custom House, who used to sell her patterns. Knitting projects she clearly intended to start -- because she had packaged the needles, the pattern, and the yarn together. A needlepoint project that my sister designed and started, probably sometime in the late 1960s. Yellowed pieces of graph paper, on which she had drawn meticulous designs for needlework. Patterns for sweaters I have, sweaters I remember, and sweaters I never saw. (Tshuve of the highest order.)
While I was enjoying the reconnection with the needlework that I grew up with, and that I myself did -- I used to travel to embroidery trade shows with my mom, and I was such an avid embroiderer that I brought my embroidery to class in third grade when the teacher didn't give me enough work to do (I had an amazing second-grade teacher, and was pretty far ahead by third grade) -- I also wanted to use the day, and the group, to help me move forward with a craft project, instead of just re-live the past. So I took one of the knitting packages my mom had prepped -- for a beautiful lacy scarf knit on small (Number 3) needles with super skinny yarn -- and I started rolling the skeins into balls. The yarn is so fine that it took the rest of the afternoon to roll it (in between doing other things as well.) And by the time I went to bed, I had three balls of yarn sitting ready to go, like old friends, waiting for me to wake up again.
Which is a perfect way to end the blogpost, except that I didn't go right to bed. I made a new menoyre, this time out of butter. Josh and I watched it burn all the way down, as the surface started to glimmer, and then melt, until a sluice opened up in the middle, and a puddle of melted butter started to form on the plate, until the middle candles sputtered out, and the end candles stayed lit -- and lit -- and lit -- the wicks wicking butter to keep the khanike miracle alive.
Never Done: Fist bumped a guy at the gym
Never Done: Saw Rimma morning, afternoon, and night
Never Done: Youth Pride Chorus
Never Done: Jell-Omenoyre
I re-learned something valuable today about decisiveness. It increases productivity. I was in spin class, and I was hating it. It was my fourth class and my fourth teacher, and I was just not engaging or participating at the level that I had with the other teachers. The resistance was too hard from the start, and the intervals were too long, and I found myself backing off, and we had only been at it for 10 minutes. After another 5 minutes, I started to think about leaving. I kept on, half-heartedly pedaling, thinking about how much better it would be if I would just leave and do my own workout, when I realized that if I just made the decision and acted, that I would be in a good workout much sooner. So I leaned over and told Rimma I was leaving, and I think she said, "really?" and I jumped off my bike and went and ran 2 miles on the treadmill.
Around 1.5 miles, I started thinking about quitting. I was getting tired, maybe I had done enough, it had been 20 minutes (I started with a warm-up) and I could go lift weights .... and then I realized that the decisiveness cuts both ways. If I would just make the decision to run for my full 30 minutes, I could stop spending my time wondering if I was going to quit, and I could spend my time thinking about more interesting things. So I decided to just do the rest of the run (which turned out to be easy) and set about to think about Something Interesting. Here's how it went.
Me: What do I want to think about?
Me: What do I want to think about?
Me: What do I want to think about?
Me: Maybe I should sing.
(I had left my locker key in Rimma's pocket, and so I couldn't get my iPod to listen to music or podcasts.)
Me: What should I sing?
Me: Maybe I'll sing the Hallelujah Chorus.
Me: For the lord God Omnipotent reigneth. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
And before I knew it the workout was over. I hadn't quit, or even thought about quitting since making the decision.
When I was leaving the gym, one of the guys who works there was coming in. The people who work at the Y are really wonderful, and I've enjoyed getting to know them. As this guy came in, two younger guys were leaving, and he fist bumped them both on their way out. Then he saw me, gave me a "what the hell" look, and fist bumped me too.
I loved that he crossed the age, gender, and race barrier and fist bumped me. I took at an acknowledgement of my decisiveness. (But really, I just like being one of the guys.)
In the afternoon, I went to one hour of Queer Memoir because it was in the LGBT Center, where Adoption/Parenting class is held. I saved Rimma a seat there (she had gotten me a ticket for spin that morning) and stayed long enough to hear a wonderful spoken memoir about the horrible parenting of young girl who would later become a trans man. I left, tears in my eyes, and walked two flights down, to learn how to be a better parent than that. Or not. From class, on to Youth Pride Chorus, where the waterworks started as soon as the first girl started to sing. I don't cry all that easily, but there are a few things that will always make me cry. One is children's marching bands. Another, apparently, is teenage LGBT choirs. In fact, they made me want to cry so much that I ended up with a headache from pushing the tears back in. The thing that is so moving about them was that they do exhibit so much pride. Did they all have great voices? No. But they sing with incredible pride and commitment. (And some of them have great voices.) I want every single LGBTQ teenager in the world to have access to that sense of comfort with self, and place in community.
So by now it's 7 PM, in the West Village, and I have been invited to three khanike parties and a khanike concert. It was hard to choose which one to go to, but when I realized that Rimma would be at one of them, and I could then see her morning, afternoon, and night, which I have never done, I decided to go to Dara B's party. Which turned out to be super fun. So fun, in fact, that instead of just staying for 1/2 hour and getting some sleep, I was there til midnight, talking, among other things, about films, doctors' complicity in torture, heartbreak, a feminist approach to online dating, tattoos, and decisiveness. A really good crowd of people. And I got an invitation to do karaoke next weekend, which I have never done. (I'm sorry, Kathleen! If for some reason I don't go, I'll save it for you!)
When I got home, I had a Facebook message asking if I had a new menoyre for the fourth night. And in fact, I had prepped a bowl of red cherry Jell-O in a clear glass bowl, in hopes that I could stick candles in it, and make a Jell-Omenoyre. Success! It came out beautifully -- the blue candles glimmer through the red Jell-O and the glass bowl, and the flames reflect off the surface. It might be the most beautiful one yet:
Never Done: Finished the first round of adoption paperwork
Never Done: Bananamenore
Tshuve: Brooklyn Soup Swap
It makes sense, but I find it harder to do something I've never done on work days than on the weekend. This coming weekend, for example, I have things lined up for both days (seeing the Youth Pride Chorus, and hosting a craft gathering at my apartment.) Technically, I do things every work day that I've never done, but I don't think they're always worthy of counting, or of writing about, so by the end of the day I often find myself torn between trying to justify writing about something mundane and getting the inspiration (and time) to do something worthy of the Never Done project.
Those are the days with the long lists.
Mich made gorgeous red and white lentil soup this week for Brooklyn Soup Swap. Full of vegetables -- a little rice, cumin, turmeric, lime. I came home and ate it for dinner, which is, technically, something I have never done. When we were hanging out at Mich's apartment, we realized we need to blog and brand the Soup Swap, along with the team T-shirts that we decided to make on the inaugural night. So we have some soup support projects to do.
As Josh and I were sitting down for dinner, I wanted to light a menore, and wanted it to be one I've never made before. I saw the bunch of bananas on the counter, and was inspired. It was the third night, and it was a banana bunch of four -- perfect for the three nights and the shamesh -- the attendant candle that lights the others. I loved the solidity and 3D depth of this menore -- the candles spread out in a semi-circle, but not in a straight line. But when they burned down, they didn't transform the banana bunch as wonderfully as the candles on a cheese menore do -- when they melt the top of the cheese and create oil -- the miracle of khanike! What I love about making these is the moment when I see new possibility in an object that I live with every day. (But I have to admit. I have an idea for a kitshy one made out of something I definitely do not have around the house.)
After dinner, Josh and I finished our first round of adoption paperwork -- the Application to Adopt and the FBI Criminal Background check, including 28 years' worth of street addresses. Mine get a little sketchy in the late 80s -- with approximate dates and locations. My life itself wasn't even sketchy any more in those days; I was out of college, and working in and around Waterville, Maine -- as a Family Planning counselor, the co-Director of a Rape Crisis center, at Railroad Square Cinema, and also at Railroad Square Cafe. (Remember the days when we got out of college and plenty of work?) But if you think I can remember my street addresses from back then....
This feels like or first milestone in the adoption process. We are going to submit this paperwork at MAPP class this weekend, and then we'll officially, bureaucratically be on our way. After they accept the paperwork we can ask people to write us references, and they can fingerprint us (woohoo!) and I think we can start meeting children.
This week's mide is decisiveness: when you have made a decision, act without hesitating. Thinking about the adoption process though the lens of decisiveness makes me realize that the main thing between not adopting a child and adopting a child is the decision to go ahead with it. It's been something I've thought about since I was a little girl, when my friend Claire and her three adopted siblings lived across the street from me. It's not, of course, that I would have adopted anyone at that age, but that I understood it was a real option for family-building. But I've been actively considering it for the past -- what? -- five years. And really, the difference between thinking about it and doing it was a decision to start the process -- and then, of course, ongoing decisions to continue the process. Handing in the paperwork today feels a little bit like jumping off an embankment into a cool beautiful lake: I know it will be amazing once I get in, but it's still scary and transgressive to take the leap.
Never Done: Practiced singing Handel's Messiah with score and recording
Tshuve: 20 years of community building
I started the day with a plan for my Never Done du jour: I was going to stop in and consult with a street psychic. But the day took a turn when the printer I went to couldn't read the file I had sent them, and I had to go back to my apartment to get the file in another format. I didn't actually know where I was going to find a street psychic (I don't track their locations) but on the way back to my apartment, I passed a beautiful young woman sitting on the sidewalk, with a big sign that she was having a $2 special. BUT .... I didn't have time.
So I hurried on home, making a new plan as I went. My new plan was that I was going to go to an art supply store near Brooklyn College. Going to see Brooklyn College, and its neighborhood, is on my list. It's held a somewhat mythical place in my mind for the past 20 years, since hearing stories of my good friend Carol's young days in Brooklyn. Now I live 10 minutes away by car, and it still feels mythological, since I haven't gone. I also have some friends moving into that neighborhood, because it can actually be affordable to buy a house over there. So, I was excited to go, and to get the art paper I needed for my printing job there. BUT on the way to my apartment, I passed a store I hadn't know about, that had art paper.
And then I passed a different printer. I ended up spending the next couple of hours working on the printing project with a different set of people than I had planned. As the afternoon wore on, and the work day neared an end, and I was heading to my Mussar Va'ad, and I didn't have a Never Done back-up plan, I wondered how it would all work out.
As I arrived at my friend Zeva's building where the Mussar Va'ad meets, I saw Margie and Victor approach the building. Margie is going to MC the JFREJ Marshall T. Meyer Risk Taker Awards next Wednesday, and we've been talking on the phone a lot lately. Since I know she doesn't live in that building, I asked where they were going. She said they were going for a PCUN fundraiser. Really?
PCUN is Pineros y Campesinos Unidos -- the farmworker union in Woodburn, Oregon. I was very close to PCUN over the years I lived in Oregon, but haven't seen many people from there since I left. I asked who was here -- was it Ramon? No, it's Larry. Really?
Larry and I were close friends and colleagues. We co-founded Progressive Jewish Alliance together after New Jewish Agenda folded. Margie suggested I stop in and say hi. So I stopped in for a minute, and saw Larry for the first time in probably 10 years. I promised to come back after my Mussar Va'ad, but as I was leaving, Margie asked me to go over the khanike blessings with her and Ellen. I knew both Margie and Ellen before I actually knew them, back when I was working for Workers Organizing Committee in Portland, and they were both leaders at foundations that funded us. They, like Brooklyn College, felt somewhat mythical to me when I lived in Oregon, so when I moved to New York and they were in my midst, through JFREJ and Kolot Chayeinu and PCUN fundraisers, I was a little awestruck at first.
I'll abbreviate the evening. After a deep talk about truth at Mussar Va'ad, and after stopping in again at the PCUN fundraiser, I arrived home to an email from Kathleen, another close friend from Portland (who actually grew up in Queens.) She had written to say that she had reached out to Scot (yet another Portland organizer friend) to ask for advice about film funding, and that Scot had suggested that we ask Ellen for her thoughts, and if we didn't know her, he could make the introduction.
You guessed it. That's the same Ellen I had recited khanike blessings with just a few hours earlier, who interviewed me in 2004, when I became the Development Coordinator of JFREJ. Some days it's just impossible to stay isolated. More to the point, what a wonderful, wonderful view I received of the thread that binds my connection to, and roles in, progressive and artistic community building over the past 20 years!
But did any of this count as Never Done? I didn't think so. It was 10 PM -- still time before bed. So I took out the scores of Handel's Messiah that I borrowed from the library, and I put on the London Philharmonic recording I downloaded earlier in the day on iTunes, and Josh and I tried to sing the bass and alto choral parts to the first 7 oratorios. Oy. It's gonna take practice, plus picking my lines out on the piano, so I don't keep being drawn to the soprano lines, which are mostly, but not entirely, in my range. And also, so that I can sing out with confidence, and not mumble my way through the score. Which is my new goal -- not just to attend the Sing Along Messiah, but to sing it out with confidence. A metaphor to live by. Omeyn.
That was really the end of the post, but I didn't write nearly enough about truth, or decisiveness -- last weeks, and this weeks, Mussar mides (middot.) I will try to work that in to upcoming posts. And, since I'm writing a little addendum, I'd like to ask again that if you are willing and inclined, that you click on the FOLLOW button on this blog, and become a follower, and that I invite you to invite your friends to read it. Thank you for reading. I love getting your comments and feedback.
Never Done: Made a menore out of a gourd
Tshuve: Khanike
The trend continues. I feel more and more part of a community of friends here in Brooklyn. I went to a khanike latke party. I wasn't invited directly, but I was invited by someone else who was invited. It turned out that five of my closest friends were there, as well as a few people I have known for years, including someone from Portland who moved here around the time I did, and someone I know just a little who turns out to be my across-the-street neighbor! It's so interesting for me to be witnessing the process of becoming a part of community. It's usually such an opaque process, but I think my writing is helping it be more transparent.
When we lit the candles, we said the Shehekhianu together -- the first time celebrating a ritual this year. And then several more blessings, and then a collective re-telling of the khanike story, trying to remember a radical analysis of assimilation and religious intolerance. We almost got there.
When he had left for work in the morning, Josh said he would bring home something to make a menore with. For the past number of years, our menores have been in storage, so we've been making our own, temporary menores out of things we have around the house. We have used zucchinis, and carrots, and tin foil, and last year we had some great success with Swiss cheese. I was expecting more of the same, so it was a surprise when Josh brought home gourds. Yellow and orange bumpy gourds. Now I think of gourds as about the most goyish thing that grows on a vine. Really, is there anything more goyish than a gourd?
No really. If you come up with anything, please tell me.
But gourds it was! We got out the power drill, and searched for the perfect khanike-candle-sized drill bit. I started by making small holes in the ends, to connect the two gourds with a small wooden dowel. Then I drilled candle holes along the top. And voila! As easy as that. Because it's bumpy, the gourd menore reminds me a little bit of my Stegomenorasaurus. (My nickname for the wonderful menore I have (in storage) with a candle holder coming off of each of the stegosaurus spikes.) Do I miss my stuff? Yes, I do. Especially my books. Do I get along fine without it all? For the most part, yes. And sometimes, even better. I think there's great value in tradition -- especially when it comes to this kind of ritual that connects us to our past. Two years ago, I inherited my mother's family's brass menore -- the one we used my whole life, growing up. Since inheriting it, it's been in storage. I know that it would give me a sense of continuity and connection to be using it, but I also know that not having it has prompted a great deal of innovation and fun -- and a sense of connection to a shared, creative life. I guess the old saying is true: the storage industry is the mother of invention.
